Spark
by Alley Cat Sunflower
Summary: "The confident persona he had painstakingly built for himself was fading fast—and truth be told, he missed the days when he could so easily believe himself superior to others." Ivar never expected to open up to any human, least of all one of the phony's companions… yet here he is in Leronde, talking to Leia. But why? Pre-ToX2. I do not own Tales of Xillia or the cover art!


The wyvern circled lower and lower over the bright little town, gleaming in the sunset, situated on the shores of an island barely bigger than the city limits. That was Leronde, if memory served, though Ivar had only heard of a few times—and at least one of those instances had been in conjunction with the phony.

_Why here? _he moaned inwardly, hiding his head in his hands before remembering to brace for landing, and grit his teeth as the wyvern landed heavily upon the ground—a safe distance outside the city limits. The people of Rashugal didn't take too kindly to monsters in their midst, after all.

"Of all the places to need a break," muttered Ivar, patting the wyvern exasperatedly on the snout, and she retorted with a snort and a roll of her reptilian eyes. _It's just for the night, _he felt her say, and her cold dismissiveness chilled him in the solstitial evening. _Find one of your human inns. I'll be fine on my own._

Ivar turned over the options in his head before giving a resigned sigh, stroking the side of her scaly neck lightly. "We leave at dawn," he decided, retrieving his bag from her pack. He definitely didn't want to stay here longer than he had to; it wasn't like he had anywhere to go, exactly, but to be in the phony's hometown longer than he absolutely had to be was an almost physically painful thought.

_Late morning, _haggled the wyvern, blinking at him. _We've been flying almost a day straight, and you aren't as light as you used to be. _Ivar shifted awkwardly; she did have a point. In an effort to find his true purpose in life if it was not at Lady Milla's side, he'd been flying her all over Rieze Maxia, steering well clear of Elympios out of a sense of extreme guilt—and, to be fair, he'd hardly given her a chance to rest…

Wait—damn it! How could she derail him so quickly?! They may have grown up together, but ever since Ivar had learned to hear her voice, he'd never been able to hold his own against her in an argument. (But then, perhaps that was more because the wyvern was about a thousand pounds heavier than he was, and more than capable of destroying him if he didn't agree.)

"What am I going to do with myself until late morning?" muttered Ivar half to himself, crossing his arms sulkily, but the wyvern only turned away from him, making her unhurried way deeper into Voltea Woods.

_That's your problem, little handmaid, _she growled, her rough voice edged with a harsh sort of laugh. Ivar stared sullenly after her before shaking his head, stretching, and finally turning his weary feet towards the town—praying to any spirits that would hear that he'd be able to avoid the phony.

* * *

><p>After a pointless trip to the seahaven in a quest for the inn, Ivar was informed by a morose-looking sailor that it was actually almost all the way back towards the other end of town—the Leronde Lodge, run by the Rolando family. Why this stupid town couldn't keep its inn at the seahaven like everybody else, Ivar had no idea.<p>

By the time he dragged himself up to the open door, it was already dusk, and though the sunlight was fast fading from the town, lanterns of bright colors—red, pink, yellow, violet, orange—splashed their color onto the cobblestone streets, illuminated by white firelight. Paying more attention to the festive décor than his own feet, Ivar stumbled over the threshold with a yelped curse.

The whole lobby was packed full of customers, drinking or chatting excitedly, and Ivar stopped and marveled at the sheer number of people—but he didn't have long to get over his surprise, because a half-familiar girl's voice called out to him from somewhere amid the din of talk and laughter.

"Hello, and welcome to the Leronde Lodge!" it exclaimed, and Ivar glanced around—startled, somehow, despite the noise surrounding him—to find… that _girl_. She had been one of Lady Milla's flock, one of few he had even noticed besides the phony, and that had been in large part due to her oddly whimsical aura—somewhat out of place among the generally more serious group Lady Milla had traveled with.

Her receptionist's smile dropped off her face and shattered on the ground as an uncomfortable silence extended between them, seemingly taking up all the air. They stared at one another; her eyes, greener even than his own, had widened. She opened her mouth to say something, her brows twitching into a confused frown—but then a woman's voice bellowed as though from a great distance, "Leia!"

The girl jumped, giving Ivar an apologetic glance and mumbling something along the lines of "Sorry—I'll be with you shortly", but she was already hustling along as she spoke, and he could barely hear her over the din of customers' conversation.

Ivar, meanwhile, bit his lip and scooted awkwardly along the wall, mind racing. There was still time for him to leave… but where would he go? Under the wyvern's wing would be safe, certainly, and he had slept there countless times before—but she had practically kicked him into town, and far be it from him to put her in a bad mood by turning up unexpectedly. She probably needed some alone time after a few solid weeks of being with him almost every waking moment and several sleeping ones, after all.

But before he could inch out the door and run away like the coward he was, Leia turned up again with a somber expression on her face. "Ivar," she greeted, somewhat warily, and rocked back and forth on her feet, but said nothing more. Ivar, meanwhile, stared first at the ceiling, then at the floor, and finally—if accidentally—looked her in those verdant eyes, gleaming in the lantern-light.

"Do you have any rooms?" he asked doubtfully, crossing his arms in an attempt to seem at least a little more in control. It had been quite some time since he'd come face-to-face with someone he knew, much less one of the phony's companions—and if Ivar was being completely honest with himself, he was beginning to lose touch of what was expected of him in an ordinary exchange between two humans.

Leia bit her lip, scuffing her foot on the ground. "It's the first day of Efreeta," she said hesitantly, "so we're pretty busy, since there's a festival tonight." She paused before adding, "Mom says we don't have any rooms," but there was an edge to her voice that seemed almost… uncertain.

Staring at the floor through narrowed eyes, Ivar tried desperately to stem the tide of self-doubt whirling through his head. Leia probably just didn't want to waste a room on him, and who could blame her? He'd only been acting in Lady Milla's best interests, but even she had called him _annoying_, and that single word had awakened a nagging voice in his head that had never stopped talking since. _Useless_, it chided him in a pointed whisper, and he almost winced.

A soft hand on his wrist startled him, and he automatically tried to tug his arm back, but the fingers held fast. "I _said_, come with me," said Leia, her voice somewhere between concerned and exasperated. Ivar frowned as she let go of his wrist—but forced his feet to follow her, weaving through the crowd of people and wishing he were half as graceful as she.

Ivar had rarely felt more out of his element than now, surrounded by strangers in a strange land; Rieze Maxia may have become one nation under Gaius, but Rashugal and Auj Oule were still comprised of very different cultures. He couldn't help but feel that he was getting some strange looks as he ascended the stairs, feeling distinctly self-conscious.

"Here," announced Leia, stopping in front of the door at the end of the hall. "It's not the cleanest, but it'll do," she added regretfully as Ivar paced tentatively forward and turned the knob gingerly, keeping one eye on her movements. No loose and girlish attire could disguise the fact that Leia definitely had some muscle, and the strength of her grip only served to prove his hypothesis.

Peering around the inside and shifting his bag's weight on his shoulder, Ivar blinked: this was clearly not a guest room. He turned back to Leia, opening his mouth to refuse it, but she was already charging down the stairs with a blithe "Coming, Dad!", and—wavering back and forth for a moment, his need for propriety weighed against his need for a place to stay—Ivar finally stepped inside and shut the door behind him before he could change his mind.

It was a nice room, really, if a little small. Though the walls and ceiling of the room were mostly white, some areas were speckled with flecks of different colors—as though Leia had taken a brush and flung paint haphazardly at the walls. The window was open to the cool Efreeta breeze, gossamer curtains fluttering. A firefly or two drifted past the screen, which was apparently taped in places.

Her bed was in disarray, a brightly colored duvet bunched up in the center of worn white sheets, several pillows piled on the mattress with a few having fallen to the scratched hardwood floor. A half-empty glass of water and a shabby lamp rested on the nightstand, its ceramic body painted with wildflowers.

The closet door stood open, revealing several similar sets of outfits hanging from the bar; the bottom was covered in shoes and boots and sandals of every kind, hardly any of which were kept in pairs. Several dresser drawers were ajar in the corner and, upon realizing that a pair of underwear hung halfway out, the color rose to Ivar's cheeks and he hurriedly kicked the drawer shut.

(It wasn't as though he hadn't seen women's undergarments before, having provided quite a few of them to Lady Milla over the years—but, in light of her ascension to the spirit realm, Ivar preferred _not_ to be reminded of his former duties as her tailor.)

His bag slipped off his shoulder to his arm, and he lowered it to the ground, glancing around carefully. This was undeniably very different from the atmosphere in Nia Khera, far more contained than natural, but… Ivar could definitely get used to this. It may have been foreign, but there was a strange brand of familiarity among the secondhand surroundings. He gradually allowed himself to relax a little, taking a deep breath—but immediately tensed up again as Leia's voice said from the doorway, "Is this okay?"

Ivar turned around stiffly to face her, surprised at the worry in her voice—no, not worry, almost _fear_. He managed a small smile in her direction and a single nod, hoping that would suffice for social interaction, but she wandered in, glancing around anxiously at the un-dusted overhead light and unswept floor.

"Sorry for the mess," she sighed heavily, putting her hands behind her back and swaying back and forth with a somewhat pleading expression. "It's just the only room there really is. Do—do you mind sleeping on the floor, though?" she asked, with timidity belying her apparently boundless energy, and scuffed a foot on the floor, crossing and uncrossing her arms as though unsure what to do with herself.

Leia's fidgeting hardly did much to set Ivar's mind at ease, but nonetheless, he found himself smiling more widely (and, oddly enough, genuinely) at her question. To be asked if he _minded _something, to have his feelings taken into account—that marked a change from the usual, when he was the subservient one.

Ivar shook his head mutely, still unwilling to speak to her more than necessary, and Leia gave him a relieved grin. It seemed to light up the whole room, that smile. "Good," she remarked, plainly satisfied. "I have to sleep here, too. I just figure it's… less awkward, if I sleep in my own bed. But you won't be sleeping on just the wood." She walked over to her bedside and contemplated her pillows.

It occurred to Ivar that rooms at an inn weren't free, whether it was an ordinary guest room or not, so he sank to one knee and rummaged in his bag for some money—but Leia nailed him in the side of the head with a pillow before he could pull any gald out. "You don't pay for a night on the floor!" she ordered, hands on her hips as she glared down at him, pillow clutched imposingly in her hand.

Ivar stared at her, brief and unsuccessful life flashing before his eyes. Spirits, she could be almost as intimidating as Lady Milla if she wanted! Swallowing, Ivar held his hands up in a gesture of surrender and got slowly to his feet—relieved that he was a few inches taller than the feisty innkeeper.

Leia paused before pushing the pillow in her hands at him; its case was faded, but the pillow itself was soft, and in its comforting musty scent lingered a trace of something like vanilla. "Here," she murmured. "You look exhausted. We'll have to save the pillow fight for next time."

"Next time?" asked Ivar, forgetting to keep interactions to a bare minimum out of alarm, but Leia's laugh cut him off.

"I was _joking_!" she exclaimed, giving him a punch on the arm that was probably supposedto be light; Ivar yelped and, glowering, rubbed what he was sure was going to be a bruise. "Honestly, lighten up a little."

"Lighten _up_?" repeated Ivar, stung, and crossed his arms, meeting her eyes with a challenge. Forget not speaking to her; she had _hit _him, for spirits' sakes, and for that he would hit her back… with words. "Don't you know what I've been through? My whole life was dedicated to helping the Lord of Spirits! Now that she's gone back to the spirit realm—"

He cut himself off before he asked the question that had possessed his consciousness for a few months now, _what am I supposed to do_, and found with some surprise that Leia was gazing up at him with a thousand emotions vying for dominance in her clear eyes. It was almost like looking into a mirror; he could pick out anger and annoyance, sorrow and pity, and could feel every one of them in his own heart.

"I don't know," replied Leia gently, as though she heard his unspoken question, and the last remnants of Ivar's grudge against her flickered and faded. "But I know she wouldn't want you to wander around aimlessly." She paused. "Why don't you go back to Nia Khera and look after the village? That would probably help her out."

Ivar sighed dejectedly, shaking his head. "No one listens to me," he mumbled. He'd always hated that part of his duties, not that he could ever tell Lady Milla so. He may have been her handmaid, but he was by no means particularly influential among his own people. The elders had always held much more sway than he.

"You could start a circus or zoo," suggested Leia after another pause, a glimmer of playfulness sparking in her eyes that almost completely disarmed him. "You're really good at beastcraft. I guess that makes you a great… beastcraftsman?" Ivar was momentarily distracted by trying to figure out what the appropriate noun is so he could correct her—only to find that there was none.

"I'm not going to embarrass animals by making perform in front of an audience," he snorted, crossing his arms and looking down at her as snidely as he dared. He had never really gotten the point of a circus to begin with; they always seemed so inconsiderate. What if the animals had stage fright? And as for zoos, they were even worse. Captivity was hardly enjoyable, any way you put it.

Leia sighed, prodding him in the chest; he flinched, startled. "You could work for the Lodge," she suggested pointedly, her tone sharper than her fingernail. "A surprising amount of people do come through here, you know, and we'll be short of help once I leave for Elympios."

"You're… leaving Rieze Maxia?" asked Ivar incredulously. Who would ever want to leave a place like _this_ for somewhere like _that_—somewhere beautiful for somewhere desolate, somewhere thriving for somewhere dead? It didn't make sense.

"Yeah," confessed Leia, leaning against the wall and staring at her ceiling. "A few days after the Efreeta Festival is over, actually. A position as a journalist opened up in Trigleph, and…" She hesitated, ducking her head self-consciously. "I mean, I love my parents and I love the Lodge, but I don't want to be stuck here forever, you know? I gotta find my own path."

Ivar nodded. "Exactly," he agreed, and for the moment, the fact that she had ever been associated with the phony—that Lady Milla had chosen her as a companion instead of him—vanished. She was just Leia Rolando, a kindred spirit, and here they stood talking, just like ordinary people would.

"She would have wanted that for us, I think," continued Leia, turning to stare out the window, lost in thought; Ivar took a few cautious steps forward to stand next to her. "Milla, I mean. For us to find our mission, the way she always knew hers."

A lump of unspoken and undefined emotion burned suddenly in Ivar's throat at the thought of Lady Milla and her unswerving devotion to her cause, and he tried with limited success to swallow it; Leia, evidently sensing something wrong, glanced up at him with concern written all over her expressive face.

"Ivar," she murmured, resting a strong yet conciliatory hand on his shoulder. "It's okay for you to let yourself feel, you know," she continued haltingly, and anger welled up so suddenly in his core that it took Ivar's breath away briefly.

"It's _not_!" he countered vehemently, and Leia visibly flinched. "She's gone," he muttered, voice breaking abruptly, and he fell silent rather than attempt to put into words, careful and true, that he considered her 'gone' not because of the way she had departed the human realm, but because anyone with eyes could see her heart belonged to the phony.

Leia's voice was reproachful but barely audible as she responded, "Don't say that," and Ivar gave a frustrated sigh, knowing she had not understood his true meaning. It had been a mistake to even try to explain; he started attempting to untangle the knot he had created in his head—but then she added, "She's not gone just because she loves Jude," and there was such grief in her voice (masked, he noticed, by false cheeriness) that he frowned: she would not meet his eyes.

"You… _love_ him," realized Ivar, the words practically wrenching themselves out of him, and she jumped before nodding silently, a rosy blush rising to her pale cheeks; her hands skimmed restlessly along the windowsill as she watched the wandering fireflies, unblinking.

"And you love her," returned Leia eventually, her voice taut and high and the slightest bit tremulous, and her eyes were clouded with sorrow threatening to spill like rain. "But we both know it can't work out like we want," she continued, and Ivar nodded, eyes burning as well as his throat. "All we can do is be glad that they've found happiness with each other."

"She's happy with him," murmured Ivar under his breath, as if in a trance. He hadn't thought of it that way before—only that some phony was stealing his rightful place by her side—and the voice in his head spat _selfish_ as he bowed his head, in grief or thought or prayer.

Leia's hand rubbed slow and reassuring circles on his shoulderblade. "I know you think Jude is a phony," she began hesitantly, and Ivar twitched uncomfortably at the title; it seemed more childish, somehow, on someone else's lips. "But he makes her smile, so he can't be all bad. Right?"

As Ivar looked down at the earnestness in her emerald eyes, something inside him cracked. It might have been the tone of voice in which she spoke, his exhaustion getting the better of him, or just sheer frustration, but suddenly he found that his eyes were burning as well as his throat, and that he was in very real danger of breaking down completely.

This was not made much easier when Leia's arms slipped comfortingly around him, and his breath caught. How long had it been since anyone, even his family, had embraced him? His heart pounded and he tensed, trying to decide whether or not to push her away or hold his breath till she let go—but then, closing his eyes, he shelved his delusional pride and wrapped his arms around her shoulders; she seemed in need of some comfort herself. Leia buried her face in his shoulder with a shuddering sort of sigh; Ivar, meanwhile, caught the faint aroma of vanilla in her hair—_so that's where the pillow's scent came from_—and, after a few more breaths, had the strangest urge to run his fingers through its silky strands.

A few peaceful seconds passed before Leia gave him a final, gentle squeeze and Ivar removed his arms warily from around her, understanding the universal signal to let go. She took a tiny step back, opening her mouth to say something, but apparently thought better of it and—eyes downcast—turned back towards the open window.

They stood there for a long time, listening to the rapid chirps of crickets as the gradually cooler breeze washed refreshingly over them, before Ivar eventually broke the silence, his mouth dry and clumsy. "Sorry," he said hoarsely, all his confused emotions consolidating into a single word, though he couldn't imagine how that could possibly be the one that would encompass them all.

Leia glanced up at him, evidently surprised. "What for?"

He shook his head haltingly. "Never mind," he muttered, running his fingers restively along the hilts of his swords, feeling every familiar bump and scratch so his thoughts could roam free. For getting in their way so often? For falling apart on her, losing whatever little cool he ever possessed in Leia's eyes?

Her laugh, light and soft, startled him, and he looked slowly down to meet her even gaze. "Apology accepted," she responded, giving a small smile, and Ivar blinked blankly down at her—his focus scattered abruptly between her slightly chapped lips and eyelashes stuck together at the edges and a few freckles here and there—before realizing that a reply was expected of him.

"But… neither of us know what I was apologizing _for_," protested Ivar, crossing his arms distractedly. Besides Lady Milla, every inch of whose body he knew because he had to as her tailor (not that he spent any great length of time contemplating such things!), he had never really bothered to take note of anyone's physical features.

"And I don't know why I accepted it, either," returned Leia, eyes shimmering with amusement. "I guess… you're not such a bad guy, Ivar," she decided after a short pause, and Ivar's eyes widened in shock. "When you're not yelling at Jude or stalking Milla, that is," she added jokingly, putting her hands on her hips, and the corner of Ivar's mouth tugged up.

Leia leaned against the wall, elbow resting on the windowsill, tapping her slender fingers in an arhythmic beat, and Ivar took to thinking, somewhat annoyed, of how quickly she had been able to convince him to speak openly with her. Perhaps it was because the wyvern rarely had the patience to listen to his problems, so many of the emotions he had conveyed had weighed him down long enough that he needed to shed the burden to someone, _anyone_.

But maybe it was the personality of Leia herself that encouraged him to reveal his sensitivity. She was both strong and vulnerable, both boisterous and serene, both playful and solemn—full of enticing contradictions—and she captivated his attention in a way no one, not even Lady Milla, ever had.

He realized that his attention had wandered to her belt, but whether his eyes had followed her fingers or vice versa he had no way of knowing. Her attire seemed far more Auj Oulian than Rashugali, come to think of it, but especially because of her girdle—string and beads and a larger jade hoop that wouldn't have been out of place in the Xian Du marketplace.

"Now that it's nightfall," said Leia, though she did not look up, "the festival finale should be starting up. There'll be fireworks, you know." Ivar was shaking his head even before he registered the unspoken invitation, and hesitated when he recognized it, but staunchly refused to change his mind if there was a chance he could run into the phony.

Leia, however, glanced up to see his expression and rolled her eyes. "Jude's not _here_," she added exasperatedly, crossing her arms. "He went to Fennmont to complete his final year at medical school and start researching spyrites," she continued, and Ivar allowed himself a satisfied smile as relief washed over him in relaxing waves.

Really, he knew in his heart that the phony wasn't a bad person, and he actually owed him quite a lot for keeping Lady Milla safe. He just had an incredibly frustrating habit of upstaging him in front of her… and even after her ascension to the spirit world, the phony's presence served as a painful reminder that Ivar was a good deal less competent than a boy about a year his junior.

He blinked: Leia came abruptly into focus, waving her hand in front of his face. "Are you gonna zone out all night or are you coming with me?" she asked, tucking her thumb into her sash with a barely suppressed smirk.

"Yeah," replied Ivar, mind jumping ahead somewhat worriedly to fireworks. He'd heard of them, of course, and he knew what they were, but he'd never seen them in person. Personally, he was of the opinion that on principle, one should not risk mixing spirit artes with gunpowder, because _seriously_, that could be really dangerous.

"It wasn't a yes or no question!" laughed Leia, swaying in place. "Come on, let's get down to the seahaven before the show starts without us." Ivar groaned, rubbing the back of his head; the last thing he wanted was to walk all the way through Leronde _again_—but before he could explain his protest, Leia scooped up his bag, grasped his wrist, spun him enthusiastically around, and pushed him out the door.

* * *

><p>Ivar wasn't sure whether being caught by a girl three inches shorter and at least twenty pounds lighter was more or less humiliating than actually falling, but either option was certainly less embarrassing than being <em>carried<em>. How Leia had hoisted him onto her back without losing her balance, he had no idea—but apparently the phony was not the only one capable of making himself feel incredibly insecure at every opportunity.

But Leia _was _sparing his feet from being trodden upon even more, he reflected, resting his head wearily on her shoulder and readjusting his arms around her neck. To preserve his dignity by insisting on walking on his own would literally hurt him—so Ivar closed his eyes and forced himself to relax into the rhythmic motion of her footsteps until finally she grunted, "Down boy," and he obediently slid to the ground.

Opening his eyes, he stared around in amazement. Ivar never would have recognized this as the place he had visited what seemed like such a short time ago; the vendors had set up shop remarkably quickly. The air was filled with an air of excitement, as well as a thousand different smells besides the sea—food, most prominently, though he couldn't pick out the specific dishes that contributed to the scent of sustenance.

"Like it?" murmured Leia, glancing at him sideways, and Ivar realized he was smiling as he nodded. He'd never spent any length of time anywhere besides Nia Khera, and though his people observed the spiritual days religiously, they weren't exactly festive folk. Something about the atmosphere here felt so happy, so _alive_, that for a moment Ivar felt that maybe, just maybe, things would turn out okay.

He realized abruptly that Leia had vanished, and glanced around, heart skipping a nervous beat he didn't quite understand—but she was only wandering between the stalls, exchanging friendly words with the shopkeepers, and he found that he was quite content to watch her. Her mannerisms were quick, her countenance cheery, her aura of somewhat childish playfulness endearing: how different she was from Lady Milla!

Ivar's eyes followed her to a booth selling cloth and snagged on a beautiful, wine-colored piece of silky fabric, flowing invitingly towards him in the light breeze as though beckoning him closer. He approached somewhat warily, nodding in response to the shopkeeper's greeting, and caressed the crimson material in his roughened hands.

"One hundred gald," remarked the woman tending the booth, and Ivar glanced up at her in some surprise. Only a hundred for a sash of this quality? "Nothing special, but it's durable. And pretty," she added as an apparent afterthought. Ivar, meanwhile, tried desperately to come up with an excuse _not_ to buy it—but found none, and was about to rummage through his bag for cash when he realized Leia still had it.

"Find anything you like?" asked her voice, before he could even look for her, and Ivar whirled around to find her standing behind him, proffering his bag with one hand and holding a cup of some sort of fruit in the other. He snatched his satchel away from her, suspicious about how she was able to move around so stealthily when she had a very… _distinctive_ appearance and personality. He proceeded to dig out all his money, which came to about…

"Seventy-nine?" negotiated Ivar, holding out the coins hopefully.

The woman pursed her lips. "Ninety," she asserted. "That's the lowest I can go."

"He's with me," added Leia, stepping forward with an encouraging smile, and Ivar set his jaw. Did someone need to rescue him from everything? Couldn't he even fend for himself in the marketplace?! The confident persona he had painstakingly built for himself, the one that Leia was used to, was fading fast—and truth be told, he missed the days when he could so easily believe himself superior to others.

"Oh, honey!" exclaimed the woman, smiling, and held out her hand; Ivar turned all his gald mutely over to her, and she pocketed it with a jingle. "I'm happy for you," she added, beaming as she gestured for Ivar to take the scarf. "You two go on and have some fun tonight. I think the show starts in a few minutes!"

"You didn't have to do that," hissed Ivar, folding his new purchase over his arm and glaring at Leia despite himself as they walked along the pier. He knew very well she was only trying to help, but she was really just making things worse. What use was a handmaid who couldn't even buy something without help?

"It was no trouble," responded Leia with a confused frown, and Ivar made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, debating running back to Leronde Lodge and locking himself in her room. "I'm sorry, though," she added hastily as she observed his expression, though he doubted very much she understood his annoyance. "But let's find a spot to watch the fireworks."

Ivar let out his breath in a long sigh, allowing her once more to lead him through the crowd. "Fine," he mumbled under his breath, making a mental vow that he would never let anyone do anything for him ever again—no matter how much it would hurt him to refuse their help.

* * *

><p>Fireworks. Were. Awesome.<p>

Sure, the wait was a little bit long ("Just a few more minutes," wheedled Leia whenever Ivar threatened to go back to the Lodge, and he had no idea what made him listen even after the seventh time) and the accommodations were a little bit cramped ("Stop _breathing_ so much," complained Leia; "you're squashing me!")—but as soon as the first arte was cast, Ivar's growing annoyance was immediately replaced by wonder.

Colors and shapes exploded over the sea, illuminating the sky and reflecting in the dark waters. Though Ivar flinched at the unexpectedly loud noise at first, the sight was breathtaking enough that he quickly grew used to the sound of artificial thunder booming in the wake of the fireworks.

Some were simple bursts of sparks in different colors; others were fully animated dragons and chimeras, more arte than gunpowder. At some point Leia's head came softly to rest on his shoulder, but Ivar's attention was on the fire dancing through the air and the smoke drifting delicately away and the night sky visible only between the flashes.

But all too soon, the final firework burst into a spherical shower of red and orange and yellow which was quickly enveloped by actual flames, and everyone burst into applause and cheers and whistles as the light flared up and finally faded out. Ivar only grinned, pressed between the corner of a stall and Leia.

The seahaven lanterns glowed to life once more; the crowd returned to its talk and laughter, dissipating gradually. He turned his head to thank her, and she looked up with sparkling eyes to say something to him, but they both halted, faces no more than a couple inches apart. He could almost taste the tart fruit on her sweet, laughing breath, and something stirred inside him, half-familiar and nameless, urging him with rising intensity to do it, _do_ it, _do it_—but the distance between he and Leia was far too great to be bridged by something so trivial as a kiss.

Green eyes met green, searching one another's viridescent depths, almost daring one another to make a move—but the only motion came from Leia's long eyelashes, fluttering in a quick blink. Ivar only closed his eyes defeatedly, exhaling in a fruitless attempt to clear his throat; his voice was still hoarse as he got to his feet and mumbled awkwardly, "Thank you," the words alien to his mouth.

Leia only nodded wordlessly in acceptance, closing her still half-open mouth, as he offered his free hand. She slid her soft warm hand hesitantly into his rough one; he pulled her to her feet, letting go as soon as he was sure she would be stable, and they began a silent journey back up the street towards the inn—keeping their distance from one another, all too aware of what could have been.

"Where are you headed?" asked Leia eventually, glancing over at him, and he looked over at her with some surprise. "Like, you wouldn't just stop by Leronde on _purpose_," she continued, and Ivar paused, trying to gauge whether or not she would laugh at him if he admitted he was completely lost.

The seconds ticked by until something inside Ivar said _now or never_, and he paused at the side of the road; Leia halted as well, looking him up and down curiously. "I don't know," he confessed quietly, staring up at a red lantern emblazoned with Efreet's name. "I'm just… traveling. Lady Milla didn't leave me with any instructions, and…"

He trailed off uncertainly, giving Leia a calculating glance. If he said any more, if he revealed his myriad of insecurities, he would run the risk of completely removing the confident mask he had built for himself over the years—the one he was always sure to wear around Lady Milla and the phony's group, including Leia. Would it be worth it to finally spit out the bitter words that had been lingering on his tongue for months?

Leia said nothing, only leaned against the fence and watched him, and somehow that was the reaction he needed. Ivar swallowed, then finally spoke: "I didn't even know she had come back from the dead until my _mother_ told me she'd stopped by the village while I was gone. How am I supposed to serve her if she doesn't bother to tell me she's alive?"

Ivar's eyes burned again, and he stared glassily at the stars rather than try to look Leia in the eye. "But I deserved it," he finished in a broken mutter. _He_ had activated the Lance of Kresnik. _He_ had broken the schism. It was _his_ fault that Elympios and Rieze Maxia had gone to war. It was _his_ fault that the elders of Nia Khera—and that Lady Milla herself—had been killed. Why should she have given him any parting words?

Leia's open palm smacked into his cheek suddenly and he staggered at the force of the blow, raising a shocked hand to his face to find it damp with unconscious tears. Meanwhile, she examined her hand, surprised, before wiping it on her shirt and putting her hands on her hips as she looked him full in the face, though he couldn't meet her eyes.

There went his last shred of dignity, and he couldn't tell whether it was his own fault or hers… but no one said he had to see her again. (At the thought of avoiding her for the rest of his life, he felt a twinge of something a little like disappointment, but stifled it quickly.)

"I'll tell you what you're going to do," announced Leia matter-of-factly, and Ivar had no choice but to listen. "You're going to stay at the Lodge for a few days and rest up, and when I leave for Elympios, you're coming with me. You need a change of pace _and_ something to do with yourself, and Elympios has both."

Wait—she wasn't going to ridicule him for showing weakness?

"I don't need rest," protested Ivar crossly. That was not, strictly speaking, true; he _needed_ to relax, he just didn't _want_ to. The more downtime he had, the more time he had to reflect on what a miserable failure he was, and the more time he had to contemplate flying the wyvern to the highest point she would and then jumping off. (Knowing her, though, she'd just swoop down and catch him before he hit the ground.)

"Then you can help out," flared up Leia, marching forward and seizing his wrist with an iron grip. "Efreeta's the busy season, so there's plenty to do and we could use an extra pair of hands. Now let's _move_," she added, pulling him forward abruptly and smiling at him. "Honestly, I kind of miss the overconfident, obnoxious version of you."

"I'll work on that," promised Ivar, and as Leia gave a tinkling laugh and led him home, babbling about exchanging GHS numbers (and something hasty about giving him the phony's as well)—he thought that even though this was a temporary fix, maybe this was what it would be like to have a human friend.

And perhaps, someday, he would find out for sure.

* * *

><p><em>Totally not a commission for Ryuchu.<em>

_Anyway, sorry for Ivar's OOCness, but I did my best to explain the reasoning behind it in the story, so I hope that was enough. Thanks for reading!_


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